


Who Hunts and Who Dances

by lordmarvoloriddle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Cannibalism, Don't copy to another site, Fanaticism, Gaslighting, M/M, Manipulation, Porn With Plot, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Voldemort centric, You think Voldemort is bad? Well...my friends... he gets even worse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25400755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordmarvoloriddle/pseuds/lordmarvoloriddle
Summary: After decades of obsessive searching followed by vague resignation, Lord Voldemort finally finds his Chosen One — on a poster for a ballet show. He continues his hunt while Harry dances and them both are hunted in turn.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 100
Kudos: 291
Collections: An Unlikely Pairing





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whoo, back at it (tomarry) again!

_My, my, my… how you_ ' _ve grown._

A single musical note shaped the beginning of the dance as Harry Potter arched his back — now much leaner — and Voldemort sat mesmerized. _Magnificent_ was the word that came to mind as he gazed at the boy, and what a pretty boy his Chosen One had grown up to be. Black curls, green eyes, a sharp face, and full lips to match. Not even Lord Voldemort himself could have crafted him better.

Yes, his Chosen One danced the same way Voldemort wielded his magic. Steadily, precisely and elegant. Seated among the unworthy muggles in the vast audience, Voldemort’s eyes trailed over the boy’s lean body as he twirled in perfect tune with the music. A smirk hid itself behind Voldemort’s hand as he watched.

So many years of pandemonium had passed searching for this one boy that the hunt for him eventually consumed Voldemort’s very existence. But all of it was rendered inconsequential now though, as the promised reward had arrived. Voldemort’s efforts and dedication had provided, as they always did. Harry Potter had finally been found. But not in Dumbledore’s special care, as Voldemort had at first presumed. It was instead in muggle London, his cursed and blessed name printed on a giant poster for some ballet show. And a fancy one at that, judging from the attire the muggles wore and the place where it was hosted. The same venue where, in his black suit, Voldemort now observed his Chosen One and other unremarkable dancers bow before the audience.

 _Harry Potter had bowed before him_ , and Voldemort had applauded. How pleasing. If he believed in silly concepts, namely fate or luck, he would have judged himself favored by both at that moment. But no, it had all been _his_ efforts. _Lord_ _Voldemort_ had won. _He_ had found the boy. _He_ had searched for him and _he_ had found him.

And now the pretty Harry Potter met his eyes, lips arched in a smile that Voldemort eagerly returned. After all, magic attracted magic and even if one wished to make abstraction of the fact, Voldemort was still an exceptionally handsome man.

 _Yes, boy, smile for me. Smile for Lord Voldemort. If I feel generous, perhaps I'_ _ll let you dance for me before you die. You **are** tremendously skilled, after all. _

Another performance was in store.

Yes, Lord Voldemort found intrigue in puzzling things; war and magic being chief among them. Only there were no wars left to wage or battles left to fight, for he had won everything that was worth winning. There was only his reign now. Only the living legend of Lord Voldemort remained. Yet now another possibility had presented itself.

Harry Potter.

But Voldemort had found the threat. He could kill the boy this very instant… he _should_ kill the boy. However… the hunt for him had provided a rare and delicious entertainment during the last few monotonous years. Even the boy’s performance that night was entertaining in some way. Yes, Voldemort decided, he would go see the boy again. Study the doomed creature until he had decided on what its exact fate would be.

But what of Potter’s magic? Would it recognize the Dark Lord ’s? Would he be frightened? Did it even exist at all? So many questions, so little answers… for now, at least. After all, the Dark Lord was a patient man and he had all the time in the world laid out at his feet.

Purchasing tickets for the muggle show the following night was a small price to pay for the treasure he had received.

“What seat would you prefer, sir?” the ticket seller inquired. She was a blonde woman with enormously round red earrings and a mouth that flashed a provocative smile as she pointed at the bright computer screen with an equally brightly colored fingernail.

“The balcony,” Voldemort responded blandly.

“Right away, sir. Good choice. The view is best up there.”

“How fortunate for me.” And how unfortunate for Harry Potter. Lord Voldemort’s spirits were tremendously high at the thought.

It was a particularly chilly November morning that day yet Voldemort decided an aimless stroll through London was in store. It brought back memories from a lifetime ago. However, it seemed like only yesterday he had walked these streets in cheaper clothing, with monumental plans and only himself for company. Running from one place to another.

But Lord Voldemort was no longer running. Now he paced, for there was no need to hurry.

On a strange whim he sat on a bench, watching the muggles as they hurried down to the metro station. Insignificant yet powerful in their numbers. Not quite a threat just yet but the risk prevailed, almost spitefully, and it grew. A further look around discovered a little boy, no more than eight years old, staring at him while tugging on his father’s hand. Voldemort found himself arching a brow at the curious child who quickly gazed away in fear of the acknowledgment. He had green eyes... But not as green as Harry’s.

The comparison came so naturally and the resulting reaction in him so juvenile — there was no crime in the child’s eyes not being Harry’s. Yet Voldemort passed judgment all the same. But luckily for the unsuspecting audience, no punishment followed. The preoccupied father carried his offspring away with a frown, as if Voldemort were a perverse predator. Well…

Staring after the pair, Voldemort now watched the man. Was he a good father? A bad one? Who would dare say in public?

Voldemort gazed away, seeking another distraction. But time and time again, only Harry Potter returned to his thoughts. With his slender body and sparkling eyes. Faint music clouded the back of Voldemort’s mind. Always a classical piece and, more often than not, stubbornly familiar. A tune from Voldemort’s youth… _German_. 

Something else stirred in the back of his mind with that connection. Something unpleasant.

*** * ***

His patience slithered away after the fourth week had passed. Voldemort had observed Harry from afar, from both the audience and the front of the boy’s apartment complex. Now a change was in store. Which was why, sharply dressed as ever, Voldemort magically carved his way through to a secluded area where faint music echoed. He knew without a doubt that Harry Potter waited on the other side of the door, alone.

Voldemort adjusted his already straight shoulders before entering, the creak of the door handle lost under the recorded sounds of a piano. 

There was Harry Potter, in front of all those mirrors. Not dancing but sitting on the floor, making quick work of his shoes, humming along to the song dictating his usual routine. _Yes, boy… after all, you belong at my feet_. The recording came to an end before Voldemort allowed his presence to be known. He advanced with a _tap tap tap_ across the wooden floors of the practice room. Potter lifted his green eyes at the intruding sound and lips parted at the sight of Voldemort. _Such_ _a striking_ _image_ _he made at Voldemort’s feet. What a vision._

Back straightening, Harry Potter inhaled deeply and stared back at him in a way that indicated how familiar he was with being stared at. “Sir… with all due respect, you shouldn't be in here.”

Quite a nice voice Potter had. It was the type that fitted weeping.

“Oh? Then how is it that I am?”

The black dancing shoes twisted between the boy’s fingers as he stood, barefooted and brave in the face of danger. “I don’t really know, but fans are strictly forbidden from entering the practice room. The whole area, really,” Potter attempted to explain, blinking at him numerous times, as if to compose himself, as if making a decision. “I saw you at the last few shows, you've been coming since the beginning of November. Always at the balcony from the middle, always alone. You only look at me, I’ve seen it and been told about this… behavior. As for your presence here… I bet you’re rich or influential ― probably both. Otherwise there’s no way you could have simply strolled all the way into the practice room and not been stopped by an employee. So… would a selfie do the trick?”

_How very ludicrous._

“Fan,” Voldemort drawled, tasting the word on his tongue. “Fair enough. I must confess your dancing is rather eye-catching.”

“What else would explain the interest?”

Potter realized the lewd meaning behind his question a little too late and bright pink painted his cheeks. If only the cockroach Dumbledore were alive to witness his precious savior blushing at the sight of Lord Voldemort. _The boy found the killer of his parents attractive_. It was the most entertainment Voldemort had experienced since stepping over the broken bones of his old professor.

“I could imagine a few other qualities.”

Potter blinked, lips parting as his fingers tightened around the laces of his precious shoes. And still the foolish creature did not retreat as Voldemort advanced and towered over him. He wanted to know how close was _too close —_ and apparently it was _quite close._

“Harry, my name is Tom Riddle and I admire both your beauty and dancing skills. Would it be asking too much if I presented you with an invitation for another private meeting?”

“I could have a jealous lover who would be opposed to that,” Potter hurried to add with a raised eyebrow over slightly pink cheeks. Yet he still did not say _no_. Voldemort smirked, hands behind his back in a gesture that was meant to be _non-threatening_.

Or at least not _too_ threatening.

“I never said you didn’t, and if that were the case then I’d rather enjoy the thrill of a little competition. But it should be said — and you should be warned — that I always win.”

It seemed the conversation had slipped into this specific direction by pure accident because of Potter and his muggle presumptions. But it should be noted Voldemort only played along to the mundane tune. 

The boy ducked his head like a shy schoolgirl before peering back up at him through his lashes. “Let’s say I agree, Mister _Tom Riddle_ ,” Harry dared, rolling the name around with his sharp tongue which was not so reserved anymore. “How do I know you’re not a stalker or one of those crazy fans who break into houses and steal lingerie then? You could even be a deranged serial killer.”

“You said it yourself, I must possess some kind of influence. Serial killers lack in that department.”

A tiny lie for a long road and the pretty Mr. Potter was smiling now. Humor proved effective, it seemed. 

“Still. Perhaps you’re a stalker,” the boy suggested with disregard and nonchalance.

“Perhaps.” Yes, Voldemort supposed he was one. All predators stalk their prey before striking. But as was natural and predictable, Potter’s innocence seemed to stand in the way of realizing his current predicament. “Tomorrow at eight then. Claridge’s.”

“Influence _and_ money,” the boy noted with a raised brow.

“Meet you there. And Harry, do bring a warm coat. We wouldn’t want you to catch a cold. After all, who knows what we may be doing _after_.”

Voldemort left, not waiting for an answer. A dancer such as Potter should be able to appreciate a good show and the Dark Lord always delivered.

*** * ***

_Lucius'_ _request to scrutinize_ _the latest bill will have to wait_ , Voldemort decided after casting one last appreciative look in the enormous mirror. He then Apparated into one of the hotel’s opulent bathrooms downstairs. A check-in for a room under the name of Tom Riddle awaited confirmation and after attending to this particular business, he went to wait for the boy at a reserved table of his choice. It was a location as private as magic could demand.

Harry Potter arrived five minutes before eight, appropriately clothed, and accompanied by a sour-looking waitress. He took off his grey coat and sat down while Voldemort observed.

“Good evening, my dedicated stalker.”

“Good evening, my pretty dancer.”

Why bother denying the stalking bit when Harry Potter displayed no signs of concern regarding this tiny detail? And, well… other things came to Voldemort’s attention, namely Potter’s pretty looks. He once again took in the fluffy black curls, high cheekbones, and plump lips. Eyes the color of which Voldemort had glimpsed so often at the tip of his wand. They felt like his property now, the rest was merely soon to follow. 

_His, his,_ _his._

“You think empty compliments will open the way to my bed?” the boy inquired, arching an eyebrow in mock amusement.

“Cunning of you to mention your bed. Should I take the offer?”

“I wasn’t offering.”

“I politely disagree. What else explains your presence?”

Potter huffed, green eyes on the leather-bound menu, searching for a plausible distraction to dispel the tension. “Fine,” he sighed at last. “ We can talk about my intentions but what about _your_ presence? Your intentions?”

“What about my presence and intentions?”

“ _Please_. Am I supposed to believe you don’t have a room upstairs?”

For the first time in as many years, Lord Voldemort uttered a genuine laugh. Honestly, the boy made the entire situation childishly simple. The supposed savior was not even putting up a fight. How disappointed Dumbledore would be if he were still breathing… Not that Voldemort held any regrets about that ordeal, mind you.

“So you will spend the night.” It was not a question.

“It depends on the way this date will go.”

 _Date_. 

Any clever reply to that was cut off by the arrival of their waitress. Voldemort allowed the boy to order first, studying him, plotting. Harry Potter expected to be fucked tonight, by his parents'killer and soon to be his own killer. Should Lord Voldemort allow him to spread his legs before his imminent end? Humiliate him? Whisper endless crimes in the boy’s ear while he buried himself to the hilt inside his inviting body? Perhaps farther? Such a thrilling image. His cock already stirred with interest and Lord Voldemort shifted in his seat.

At last the muggle vanished with some polite and unnecessary words and the staring contest with Harry Potter resumed. Voldemort felt a terrific wave of arousal at the cocky look in the boy’s eyes. A cockiness that would serve Harry into an early grave. Yes, the boy was exactly where Voldemort wanted him to be. He will kill him. But later. Let Potter warm his cock first if he wished to do so.

Voldemort’s next question was a calculated dare.

“Have you ever had someone fuck you?”

Harry stilled like a deer caught in the headlights, glass of wine halfway to his lips. He placed it back onto the crimson tablecloth with a visible shudder. It clinked like bells. “Fuck me?” he asked.

“Had someone’s cock inside your ass?” Voldemort explained with vile mischief.

“I know what fucked means, thank you very much,” Harry muttered, eyes cast down and a bit of redness coloring his cheeks.

It was a reaction that was more than enough to scream his only truth. 

“Shame. I always excel at providing theory,” Voldemort continued with a predatory smile. “And practice.”

“I’m sure you do.” The boy’s gaze flickered up and Voldemort took the chance to dive straight into his thoughts — _A virgin when it came to men, was full of excitement and attracted to Tom in a terrible manner but was sure to accompany him upstairs. Already thinking about a potential third meeting. Playing somewhat hard-to-get —_ Voldemort pulled back when green eyes narrowed.

Ah, not so magic-less, it appeared.

That could pose serious complications if left unattended. The Potter brat harbored surprises. But was Voldemort truly surprised? Of course not. Such a possibility had existed from the very start. But then that left the question of whether the boy was aware of his own powers. It seemed unlikely but it might be far too early to make judgments and pass sentences concerning this matter now. Voldemort would have to see for himself tonight what really lay beneath Harry Potter’s skin.

“May I hold your hand?” Voldemort asked in as charming a manner as he could muster.

“You certainly don’t lack shameless determination,” the boy noted, already extending his fingers across the table as if it were a precious offering. “First you ask about my intimate life so directly then ask for my hand like a gentleman. Who exactly are you, sir?”

“Someone interested.”

“Interested in what?”

“You.” He twisted Harry’s slender fingers in his. “Just as you are interested in me. So let’s not play coy with one another.”

Long black lashes obscured the boy’s green eyes but did not manage to conceal the slight awe in them.

“Fine, Tom, no playing. Honesty?”

“Honesty,” Voldemort agreed.

“Good.” His Chosen One took what was supposed to be a subtle deep breath, yet it was anything but subtle in the end. “After we eat I’ll accompany you to your room. This is what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but I believe we share the desire.”

“We might.”

The touching, combined with prolonged eye contact, could only mean Voldemort’s erection returned with unforeseen viciousness. _Soon_ , he reminded himself, _very soon_. _By the end of the night you_ _’_ _ll barely possess enough strength to walk, let alone dance in your pretty dance shoes_ . His aching cock brushed against his pants and Voldemort’s nails grazed the boy’s palm. He watched the sharp intake of breath which followed from that and thought, _Oh yes, I’m going to fuck the life out of my_ _Chosen One. Soon_ _, and quite literally._

But until then, dinner was going to be a long and torturous — but otherwise exciting — affair. A prelude to the main dish… and the Dark Lord was famished.

*** * ***

The elevator ride passed in silence. Not necessarily out of choice, as the presence of muggles around them certainly interfered with any… further activities. However, Voldemort found himself partly satisfied with the occasional shared glance and the proprietary hand he had placed on the boy’s bony hip. He let it simply rest there, a reminder for what was to come. Judging from the rapid blinking of Harry’s eyelids and the tense lines of his slender body, the Chosen One was less patient, even agitated.

_Impatient child… if you only knew of the vicious death awaiting you in that fancy hotel bed._

The door clicked shut behind the unlikely pair and then there was stillness. A heavy silence fell and it conjured a malevolent grin onto Voldemort’s lips as he advanced further into the extravagant chamber, conscious of every delicate step that followed his. 

_Will you stay? Will you run?_

“Nice room.”

Really now? “ Not great, not terrible,” Voldemort replied, finding himself entertaining the boy’s clumsy attempts at small talk.

Harry arched a questioning eyebrow, depositing his coat on the clothes hanger before managing to convey the image of a lost child in a chamber that was only moderate in size. Or perhaps he was experiencing the thrill of fear as only prey could feel. 

Voldemort struggled to cure the beginnings of a smirk. He also got rid of his outerwear and green eyes followed the action, terribly curious. A wiser person would have walked away but Harry Potter only stepped closer and Voldemort met him halfway. He gazed down at his pretty prey, so very eager to be here, eager enough to stare at him through thick lashes in a silly attempt to seduce.

Yes, he will definitely fuck his Chosen One first. Pleasure, then carnage. The two were never truly mutually exclusive for him anyway.

Even when touch lacked, something ran between them. A spark, a shock, a promise.

Well, that proved a theory that begged to be tested.

Voldemort cupped the boy’s chin and a part of Voldemort forgot how to breathe… as it so happened for the boy too. Voldemort’s fingers now traced Potter’s parted lips and both pairs of eyes widened at the irrational contact. Lord Voldemort did not like this one bit. There were too many unknown variables and unknown variables were dangerous. They encouraged unknown ends.

But enough reminiscing.

The boy gazed up at him and in that moment nothing was how it was supposed to be. Alarm bells went off in Voldemort’s head, so many alarms… He leaned down to silence them and instead found himself transfigured by a mere kiss. Initiated by who — Him? Potter? Both? Or neither? Either way, his chest heaved at the implication and sensation and at once he glued the boy to him. Every limb pressed together while Harry Potter’s delicate hands tangled in his hair, all but sighing into Voldemort’s famished mouth. At that moment, the Dark Lord could not tell left from right… he only desperately craved what was so desperately offered.

With Harry’s arms wrapped around his neck, thoughts of blood and gore suddenly proved less appealing. Proved secondary to these new sensations but not entirely undesirable. Simply… less so when his Chosen One provided so much more at that moment. 

In the next instant he had Potter on his back on the bed with legs opened in a clear yet somewhat still shy invitation. Voldemort briefly considered his own irrational thirst in the face of such a sight. Trailing his lips over the pale neck, the flushed cheeks, and anywhere he can think of, he sought answers to the fire coursing through his veins. And when Harry viciously pulled at his hair to wordlessly demand a kiss, Voldemort found himself obliging the petulant child while he ground against his obvious erection. And _oh was he so happy to_ _oblige._

Moments before, Voldemort may have wished for screams of horror, but what kind of man would he be if he refused to indulge his other, more pressing desires? The boy who was meant to be Voldemort’s ultimate destruction looked utterly debauched by his mere touch alone. Voldemort basked in the pride and perverse glee this gave him. Made him want to crawl inside Potter and eat him from the inside out, every organ, every bone. 

_How would the boy like that,_ he wondered.

“ _Tom_ ,” Harry Potter moaned, parted lips brushing the column of his throat in an irregular rhythm. “Kiss me, I want ―”

Something pulsed inside Voldemort and oh, he wanted as well. He wanted a great number of outcomes, one after the other, all together or none at all.

“Off with these.”

His demand was followed to perfection as the boy blushed and trembled, slithering out of his garments while the Dark Lord watched. A distant part of Voldemort’s consciousness briefly entertained turning the clothes to dust. But then again, there was no point in revealing his magic so early ― that could come later, and only after Harry Potter was thoroughly corrupted. Perhaps that much justified the irrational need clouding his rational mind.

Voldemort needed to silence all those disruptive forces so he kissed the boy, covering the pale, lithe body with his own much larger one. Moist lips pulled back from his with a small jerk, perhaps a reflex or a reaction. Yet he met those green eyes with a warning, pushing Harry Potter farther into the mattress, hands on his hips, reeling him closer and closer but never close enough.

_Look at him. The mighty Lord Voldemort grinding his hips between his Chosen One_ _ ’ _ _s legs._

Then the boy moaned and rocked against Voldemort’s now viciously hard cock and Voldemort wanted nothing more than to get inside what was his. All secondary thought was only that ― secondary. 

Both his appetite and the raw desperation in Harry’s movements spurred Voldemort on. Hands clawed at his shoulders and when Voldemort finally entered the boy he was ready to laugh with the satisfaction of it all. It was all so smoldering hot, tight, and so very perfect. But most perverse of all, it was the Boy Who Lived who spread his legs even wider, _welcoming_ the intrusion. Voldemort thrust his entire length inside —

And dread suffocated him at once. A horror that could only live in his most vile dreams crept into him. Yet now it shaped itself into reality as Harry Potter moaned with the Dark Lord’s cock stuffed inside him. Because not only was this boy merely Harry Potter. He was so much more.

He was… Lord Voldemort himself. A living, breathing piece of Lord Voldemort, clinging to him as he fucked him. The child, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, Harry Potter… he was Lord Voldemort’s horcrux.

 _Fuck_.

The planned slaughter fell to ashes but Voldemort’s anger survived and thrived. And translated into a different behavior as fingers dug into his horcrux’s hips and lips kissed hard. Yet the actions gradually descended… or rather ascended, as his climax hit and brushes between lips and shaking breaths were shared. They held each other with desperation, as if they weren't already one.

At the end of it all, Voldemort watched his cum leak out of Harry then met the green eyes with his own, feeling their weight upon him. The boy followed with a tired giggle as soon as Voldemort’s teeth grazed the column of his throat, not knowing how desperately the Dark Lord ached to rip it open and paint the white sheets bright red. 

A chain of self-control offered a happy ending that night. Yet for whom, exactly, was debatable.


	2. Chapter 2

Voldemort’s night was sleepless and spent planning, therefore arguably productive. He had little use for sleep anyhow. It was only a useful habit nurtured by many years of existence and perhaps aided by his glorious magic or simply his formidable will alone. It could therefore be stated that the unwanted and unexpected existence of a human horcrux was not the reason behind the long hours passed in silence. Nonetheless, his head was inundated with hushed whispers that were also threatening in nature.

_Seven instead of six._

_Another horcrux._

_A human horcrux._

_Harry Potter… hosting the Dark Lord’s soul._

The Dark Lord exhaled sharply and the boy in question sighed beside him as if reinforcing his suddenly privileged status. Voldemort considered the urge to brutally slaughter something living, preferably the being softly breathing against his shoulder. But he buried the thought at once, and far away from daylight or the realms of possibility. Harry Potter needed to live and the soft breaths brushing against his skin must never stop. It was truly a tragedy dictated by purpose. Ah, but he was getting ahead of himself now. There was no need to be consumed by anger and futility just yet. The rules had changed but the game remained and thrived. The Dark Lord could still win. It would be a different win, yet a win nonetheless.

A few moments later, or perhaps it had been an eternity already, Voldemort left the bed. He went to the bathroom where he stood for a disturbing amount of time staring at his own face in the mirror. He… had another horcrux. A human one. The books had never offered such information on the topic. It was only meant to be possible with innate objects and innate objects only…

Yet here was this boy.

By all accounts, Harry Potter was the first of his kind and all because of Voldemort’s extraordinary abilities. The Dark Lord was unfathomably powerful so was it truly a surprise he had crafted an unfathomable creation? No, not at all. But it clawed at Voldemort that all this had been done in the absence of any conscious decision. Lack of self-awareness had never concerned him. But nearly fourteen years after the incident, little could be mended. The reborn Dark Lord was far more self commanding than the one who had pointed his wand at an infant Harry Potter in the past. And so, at least currently, another accidental horcrux was out of the question. Other, more pressing, concerns needed to be considered now. So with that in mind, Voldemort returned to the bedroom —

And stared at the green eyes which blinked up at him over a brimming cup of tea. But this was not the reason for the Dark Lord’s stare. It was the attire of his horcrux…

Harry Potter was wearing his shirt, and _only_ his shirt. Voldemort’s shirt. On Harry Potter. A very smug Harry Potter. “Tea?” the boy asked with a smile, as if reading Voldemort’s gaze.

Voldemort remained silent and nodded as something dangerous tugged at his insides, something akin to the desire from last night. His unique creation, his human horcrux, padded over to him and before any conscious decision could cross his mind, the Dark Lord leaned into him and his warmth. He accepted the drink with one hand while the other held onto Harry’s hip, offering — or perhaps creating — the perfect opportunity for the boy to glue himself against him. 

Skinny arms sneaked around Voldemort’s bare torso and Voldemort realized that Harry was... hugging him, clinging like a leech. Voldemort allowed it, partially distracted by the novelty their touch stirred in him and partially by the scent of the hair tickling his face. _Coconut_ , the Dark Lord noted. His fingers sunk into the material of his own shirt and Voldemort uncovered at least a piece of his answer.

_Patience_.

“Good morning, Tom.”

_Curse that damned name on those damned lips._

“Good morning to you too, Harry.”

Yes, he would have to wait patiently. Lord Voldemort would meanwhile not be denied his desires, whatever his particular desires were, now or tomorrow or seven eternities later. _Seven eternities, seven horcruxes_. He chuckled into Harry’s neck and the boy laughed. Laughed and laughed, not knowing what he foolishly laughed at.

For the first time in a great number of years, the Dark Lord allowed himself to temporarily postpone his plans. Why hurry when his prey so desperately flung itself into the beast’s claws? Harry Potter wasn’t going anywhere. Never. 

*** * ***

Despite some expectations and general beliefs, Voldemort’s rule proved to have evolved into a massive bureaucracy. He had known this to be true from the very beginning and even before that. But the experience proved far more tedious than the Dark Lord had envisioned in times of war and conquering. Lucius may be the one regularly handling state affairs but significant decisions were still Voldemort’s domain in the end. Precious time spent over papers while nursing a headache said as much. 

Even now Lucius was speaking and speaking _and speaking_ and Voldemort could already foresee another headache in the near future. And for what? It was always the same subject these days without any palpable result. Just as their search for the Boy-Who-Lived had been. His temper flared at the memory of such momentous failure.

“Tell me, Lucius, do I have to do everything myself?”

As always, the senior Malfoy took his interruption in stride, blonde head bowed low, tone descending even lower. “No, my Lord, but you see… they are not in Britain and so our jurisdiction officially ends at our borders. We can’t possibly extend demands across―”

“Are you teaching me legislation now?”

The shaky exhale from the other man nearly curled Voldemort’s lips. But mostly it sparked displeasure. He had always harbored a great disdain for unproductiveness and that specific word had described most of Lucius' endeavors these past few months. The Dark Lord silently waited for the blond man to meet his eyes and then he waited some more. He waited for far longer than was socially acceptable while the sun painted unflattering shadows on Lucius’ already pale face. A face which awaited a just sentence for its owner's crime. Voldemort himself craved it yet at the moment it would not be… _productive_. He leaned back in his chair, at last breaking the strained silence.

“My influence and our capabilities stretch far and wide across the continent, and even further. That being said… Tell me, Lucius, how it is that the last filthy scraps of the Order are still spreading themselves in my world so long after they fell from grace? Have I not allocated enough resources to hunt them? Or are you simply incapable of seeing to this one small thing among many others?”

Voldemort’s temper flared but it was not so bad as it could have been. The day had been fruitful, after all. Harry Potter was finally in his grasp, one lasting obsession finally meeting its end. Why should he let Lucius and his usual train of bad news stain it? Even if the Dark Lord were to severely and perhaps permanently punish the senior Malfoy, whom of his other followers were capable enough to replace him? Who were as informed enough to see to Ministry affairs? The man’s own son? No, he was too young — only Harry’s age, a brat. All variables considered, Lucius’ existence was still needed for the time being. At least until another could be trained to fill his place.

Voldemort schooled his expression so as not to display any evident murderous displeasure while Lucius continued to pour out justifications and promises. For both their sakes, Voldemort decided this pointless meeting needed to come to an end.

“Enough. I am not interested in justifications. See that you bring them to me before the year is done. They are only a shadow of what they once were — scarce and weak, with no hope or savior. So do not disappoint me, Lucius, or I will find someone else capable of the job.”

There was no need to gaze at the man’s face to know his words had speared and shattered their target. The Dark Lord waited for footsteps on wood floors to fade before standing himself and facing the tall double windows.

_It will rain later today_ , he thought. Voldemort frowned at his own prediction, as his weather-guessing skills had been acquired through less favorable means. Memories invaded his mind before he could fight and conquer them. Memories of the orphanage and of countless days and nights spent with foggy breath clouding the window. Of a young boy waiting for a family that would never come and take him home. There was only the sky, its light and dark and anything in between. He had learned that early on.

Upon blinking himself back to reality, the Dark Lord was not particularly taken aback to find the glass windows of his study adorned with tiny cracks. They spread across the surface like a persistent disease. Voldemort allowed their journey to continue. 

*** * ***

Wind shook the empty trees. The gloomy November afternoon did not mirror the morning but Voldemort cared little for such sentimental things. Muggle London passed him in a blur as people peered up at him, fluttering their lashes and sporting smiles. They were all so utterly insignificant, each and every one of them. _Muggles_. 

The Dark Lord Apparated close to Harry’s ballet house. Close enough to portray a normal walk with the endgame of another meeting. But what his final purpose with his human horcrux was, he did not yet know. That much Voldemort could admit. It infuriated him greatly, this indecisiveness that had never plagued him before. But Harry Potter…. Harry Potter was an unforeseen complication in the Dark Lord’s glorious existence and the simple and preferable solution of brutally and perhaps publicly slaughtering him no longer served any purpose. How utterly disappointing. But the option of letting him live was no less confusing. More data was needed, he decided. Yes, this was the reason behind his seeking out Harry Potter’s whereabouts.

That being taken into account, it was no wonder he glimpsed his horcrux first, given his everlasting fixation. As soon as the building came into view, so did the boy in the red sweater. His presence was felt before it was seen. Was it because Voldemort now knew what to search for now? Knew how to reach for his very soul? So many questions with no definite answers… The Dark Lord despised such uncertainties. It was not in his nature to allow room for error, and there was not only room here but an entire universe.

A car honked on the other side of the road and Voldemort came to a halt. His eyes narrowed at Harry’s dance partner who gripped onto his horcrux’s lithe arm. He was an unremarkable man named… _something…_ who smiled far too much and far too wide and still clutched onto a visibly embarrassed Harry. A breath stood between Voldemort and the urge to do permanent damage to the redhead when, as if sensing the Dark Lord’s presence, Harry’s eyes found his and the boy smiled foolishly at the sight of him. 

Whether it was Voldemort’s smirk or his simple stare, something had been enough for his horcrux to edge slowly towards his possessor and leave the muggle behind without so much as a word. This pleased Voldemort greatly. Meanwhile the muggle looked profoundly crushed by Voldemort’s appearance and another wave of glee washed over him. Privately, the Dark Lord questioned why this childish humiliation of such an insignificant and feeble creature entertained him so much.

But then Harry was before him and all other thought lost their already fleeting importance.

“How flattering, my stalker has come to see me again so soon. Missed me already?”

Voldemort had killed people for saying far less but now he found a strange sort of pride in the words. “A dedicated stalker who couldn’t resist you,” he confirmed with a smile, playing the boy’s game.

Harry shivered and Voldemort knew it had nothing to do with the chill of the November day. He closed in, eating the shared distance between them before leaning in close to the boy’s face. Pink lips parted so prettily while green eyes blinked lazily as if fighting to conquer their natural instinct to close, unwilling to let Voldemort out of their sight for even a moment. A weak part of the Dark Lord could get used to this. “Do my dashing good look dazzle you, Harry?” he taunted.

“Does my pause give you more time to gaze at my pretty face?”

Voldemort was somehow impressed even long after his horcrux burst into happy giggles. Harry Potter was so happy, too happy. It almost demanded a punishment of some sort… But that could come later. For now, the boy slithered his fingers between Voldemort’s own and tugged him towards a crosswalk with a clear plan in mind. The Dark Lord allowed the behavior. Games were games, after all, and mistakes would be costly at this point.

Harry told him about his daily activities, school, dance practice and friends while Voldemort nodded along with fake interest and the occasional surprise. As if he hadn’t been keeping tabs on this boy the entire time. He fought a potential deranged smirk from his face; Harry wanted a charming lover, after all, and Lord Voldemort would have to graciously provide.

The restaurant the boy led them to was unremarkable judging by the decor, attire and manners of its customers. The way the redheaded boy bumped into Harry’s shoulder and did not apologize were proof enough of this. Voldemort fought with the need to curse the stranger. But they were inside and circumstances dictated restraint as the best course of action. Besides, his irritation was not caused by his surroundings but by inward factors instead.

Harry Potter was still talking when Voldemort brought his thoughts back to the present. But now it seemed he was engaging in his own interrogation.

_Took him long enough_ , Voldemort inwardly sighed.

“Sooooo…. what do you do?” Harry questioned around a mouthful of cheap Chinese food, seeking both answers and not to burn his tongue.

Voldemort clutched his chopsticks a little too hard before speaking. “State affairs. I seek to make our world a better place.”

“I should have known you were a politician,” Harry smiled, looking at Voldemort with even more awe than before. “Definitely have the sharp tongue of one.”

Privately, the Dark Lord revelled in his own clever withdrawal of information. He had not lied, per se. Their interactions were too easy to be a worthwhile game yet Voldemort found himself entertained all the same. “It appears you’re in quite a predicament about forming opinions regarding my tongue,” he replied.

Harry choked on his noodles while Voldemort watched in satisfaction. “Gosh, you’re so petty,” his horcrux finally managed after gulping half a glass of water and shaking his head in disbelief.

The Dark Lord smirked, still savoring the image of Harry Potter struggling for precious air. “Are you trying to communicate something particularly clever?”

“And rude too.”

“Are we introducing ourselves for the first time?”

Harry laughed as if Voldemort had shared the greatest joke in existence and Voldemort grinned in turn. It was the appropriate thing to do when one indulged in potential dark humor… even if there was no joke to begin with. But ah, perceptions… unwanted yet needed all the same.

The boy talked and talked and Voldemort stared, inundated with the sudden need to engage in something particularly damaging to his companion. The cheerful demeanour before his eyes nearly demanded it. Yet he held in all his twisted desires, smiled charmingly, and Harry grinned like a child with rosy cheeks and bright green eyes.

“If you happen to think I talk too much,” Harry spoke, gazing down at his bowl before meeting Voldemort’s eyes. “You can always kiss me and I’ll shut up. Pinky promise.”

_The audacity._ But also witty just the same.

“There’s a table between us,” Voldemort pointed out with only a single ounce of cruelty coating his tone.

Harry nodded as if in deep thought before he stood, circled said table with purpose, and took a seat next to the Dark Lord. They were so close that their thighs brushed with every breath taken. There was no element of surprise in this action; Voldemort expected it in some form or another. He was also not one to turn his back on an opportunity when it presented itself. So he allowed his palm to rest on the boy’s leg — high above his knee, higher than appropriate — and felt him _jolt_ beneath his touch. The green in Harry’s eyes was even greener at this proximity. The boy was exceptionally reactive to Voldemort’s every touch, as would be expected for a piece of his soul.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Voldemort teased, voice pitched dangerously low for the simple pleasure of seeing Harry blush and become embarrassed — and embarrassed he was. His quivering hand took hold of Voldemort’s adventurous palm before… interlocking their fingers. He did not let go but simply held on, staying by Voldemort’s side even while the flirting directed his way bordered on mocking.

With vulnerable eyes but a sure hold, Harry Potter was a strange mixture of shy and daring. And Lord Voldemort had always possessed a gnarly fascination with enigmas. When he gazed into the boy’ s eyes he saw something that mirrored the inner machinations of his own mind. A reckless hunger for a feeling yet unknown, so dangerously intertwined. That single moment of vulnerability made the Dark Lord ache to _crush_ the one who induced it. Such development was not wished at the moment so he did the next best thing.

Voldemort kissed Harry, swallowing the whimper which fuelled that _something_ inside himself which he could not tolerate. Their joined hands traveled up, the movement concealed by the cheap tablecloth. Up, and then….

Voldemort felt his horcrux shift their interlocked weight before their fingers were in the Dark Lord’s lap, pressing over a bulge that was already there. Voldemort let out a low growl and his fingers dug into Harry’s delicate wrist before gently bringing it to his now unoccupied lips and offering a nearly apologetic kiss. Meanwhile his gaze was anything but apologetic. What clouded his mind that instant would have made a whore blush.

“Be a good boy for me, darling.”

The phrase had Harry fanning heavy breath over his face and it nearly cracked Voldemort’s control. It fed into a potent impulse that was not so content with being chained and trapped in the dark for the first time in so many decades. He could lock the doors, trap the muggles inside, immobilize their weak bodies and have them watch while he fucked Harry Potter right on this table. Fuck him so hard that he rearranged his insides. But then the game would be finished so very soon, the entertainment gone, and the horrendous truth would be revealed for the boy still holding his hands. Terror would replace desire in an instant. A free horcrux would turn into a trapped horcrux… So, no. Lord Voldemort had invested too much time to disclose the truth so easily. It would be a shame to cut the chase this soon.

Harry’s face did not hide his own thoughts. He was so disgustingly happy. Beaming at Voldemort, stealing not so subtle glances at his lap from time to time, incredibly pleased with himself. “Let’s take a picture together,” Harry let out all of a sudden and reached for his phone across the table.

_Silly boy._

“Sentimental,” Voldemort chided, but not without some warmth. “What for?”

“Ummm, Instagram...?”

Lord Voldemort decided to play along in the great unknown. The answers would come along. They always did. “Let us do so then. Come here.”

With Harry Potter perched on his knee and Voldemort’s hand on his hip, he decided to stretch this between them for as long as it pleased him. When the boy smiled, he smiled too, and after the _pictures_ were taken he peered at Harry while his horcrux joyfully tapped at the screen on his phone. 

“Username?”

_Muggles_. 

“I don’t have an Instagram.”

“Mystery Man then.” A laugh escaped Harry’s pretty lips. “Now everyone will think I have a sugar daddy.” No hidden meaning there. “And talking about phones and such, when are you going to ask for my number, Mystery Man?”

“Three days from now and after your performance. It will be more interesting that way.”

Harry laughed again, so very surprised by the Dark Lord’s knowledge of his schedule. Meanwhile, Voldemort bitterly accepted that he would need to get himself a phone for obvious purposes. He stared down at Harry’s own with disdain. Yes, one of _those_. 

And apparently one of those were not the norm either, Voldemort realized as they passed the doorway to Harry’s shabby apartment. Only now did the weird look the muggle employee had offered him make sense when the Dark Lord asked for a phone just as Harry had that very afternoon. It had been cheap and poor. Cheap phone, cheap apartment, and cheap… attire, under closer inspection. Harry’s own downcast eyes spoke to this truth, as did the way he avoided Voldemort’s gaze and fidgeted around his small apartment while fetching tea and biscuits. All the while he made charming conversation with his guest — or at least that was how it undoubtedly looked from his point of view. For Voldemort, it was a conversation with his master. 

“Do you even like tea?” his horcrux sighed, placing a pink tray on the small and round thing that supposedly served as his dining table.

Voldemort ignored his question, choosing instead to carefully observe the rapid blinking of those green eyes. The Dark Lord found himself amused by Harry’s antics. The boy’s visible shame brought a certain satisfaction. This was a valuable datapoint — Harry’s misery equaled a source of joy for Voldemort. Further exploration was in store. All in the name of knowledge, of course, and power.

“Harry, relax.”

But Harry did not relax. So Voldemort scooped the boy up and placed him on his lap before placing himself in an armchair that threatened to break under their combined weight. For good measure, the Dark Lord invested in a quick safety charm before his attention was fully captured by the being trapped in his arms. A being who now smiled, and relaxed.

Harry blinked down at Voldemort and tapped his shoulder in accusation. “Do I weigh anything to you?”

Voldemort tilted his head, not so privately amused. “You feel like a book containing around five hundred pages.”

The laughter that followed should have induced annoyance. And yet… it became plain enough that this little game they played had very early on become unpredictable for the sole participant who knew he was playing one in the first place. The Dark Lord started to feel like his own urges controlled him instead of the other way around. It made his grip on Harry’s hip tighten.

“Thank you.” The words were nearly whispered into Voldemort’s ear and threatened to unbalance his thoughts.

“What for?”

“For… you know… staying. In spite of… you know.”

_The lack of wealth._

“Harry, I want you because I only want the best — and the best can translate into many things.”

Harry nodded into his chest, not fully grasping the truth of that sentence just yet.

“But you had a different impression at first. About who I was. How I lived.”

“I did. Famous ballet dancers tend to possess certain luxuries.”

His horcrux let out a laugh without a trace of humor. “Not the ones who have debts to pay.”

“Debts?”

Silence. Slow answers had always frustrated Voldemort to no avail. But he pushed against the temptation to invade the boy’s mind and pick every thought apart until there was nothing to be found there. Instead he waited and, at last, Harry decided on trust. 

“Well, let’s just say… my aunt and uncle are rightfully expecting a paycheck for their… costly investment in my dancing career. Debts are debts.”

“When was the last time you were offered a gift?”

Anger had swept through Voldemort at Harry’s confession. _His own soul was_ _left wanting in life_ _because of muggles. Muggle relatives he had known nothing about. But why had all his roads met dead ends? Because of whom?_

Pushing against Voldemort’s chest, Harry maneuvered himself so that he could straddle the Dark Lord’s hips. His brow furrowed in an attempt to frown. “Why do you ask?”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow at the suspicion in his voice. “Why do you think?”

“No offence, but I don’t want expensive presents from you. It’s not fair to either of us.”

“Then humour me with an impossible dream.”

A few moments came and went before an answer was delivered. “Hmmm… a dragon would be pretty cool, I guess.”

Voldemort did not hide his smirk. “A dragon?”

“Yes, a dragon,” the boy exclaimed, obviously frustrated by Voldemort's lack of reaction. “A giant dragon that’s black as night. Like Drogon from _Game of Thrones,_ or — even better — one like Balerion from the books.”

The Dark Lord’s smile only broadened.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful bet, ladykb !

Voldemort’s shoes were drowning in mud, something he deliberately chose to ignore as he appeared in front of the country house he now gazed at with distaste. The shack in which the Gaunts used to take their useless breaths proved to be far more imposing than this. Yet, however unremarkable this house may be at first sight, no one could fool Lord Voldemort. He caught wind of the magic sizzling in the air, the air itself rippling against its own existence; how the bricks appeared to be a living, breathing creature trapped in stone but not fully. Eagerly stretching a limb as soon as it believed no eyes were judging its form. Lord Voldemort could taste all the lies.

Perhaps it was anticlimactic that in the end he chose to knock. He had no time to ponder this decision as the door swung open and Voldemort sighed internally at such a plain display of stupidity.

“Good afternoon, Rita,” he greeted in an even tone, watching those eyes go comically round as soon as recognition found its place. “Before mindless panic fully settles in, know that I have placed additional wards upon your home so you would find yourself unable to fly away and otherwise Disappear. Oh, don’t be this surprised. Unregistered Animagus or not, Lord Voldemort always knows. Now invite me in.”

“Please My Lord,” she choked, “do come in.”

He found enjoyment in wiping the soles of his shoes on Rita’s pinkish carpet. As expected, the interior vastly contrasted the exterior; lavish and spacious and atrociously furnished, distasteful, just as its temporary owner was. 

“Why are you in Ukraine, Rita?” he asked as he sat at the dinner table, forcing the witch to do the same, albeit much slower, as if dragged by an unseen hand.

There was no need to venture into her mind to glimpse the hidden algorithm currently at work in there. _To lie or not to lie?_

“Oh, researching for a risky article that demands complete discretion….” her eyes travelled from the door to the floor rather often, an obvious and disappointing pattern. “You know how these things are…” 

He stared silently, long enough to change Rita’s expression from discomfort to terror.

“I really do not. And if you lie to me again I promise not all of you would survive this visit. Now, an answer. Harry Potter’s aunt and uncle, how come you were so unsuccessful in your research as to miss their existence? You, who would do anything for a story, at my orders no less?”

Against expectations, the surprise on Rita’s face proved genuine. As was Voldemort’s. He came here for treachery… not _this_. A distant part of himself condemned his slip of tongue. No matter, he could always Obliviate her later.

The woman fretted in her seat.

“I… but believe me, my My Lord. I searched, thoroughly so. Nor me or my sources ever found a trace of either the boy or a potential family. I―”

She spoke but Voldemort no longer listened. There was no sense to this story. With a prey so vulnerable and the hunters so vicious, how had the prey managed to evade notice and capture for so long? In the past he had entertained the thought of Harry Potter being in Dumbledore’s careful grasp, but now with the old fool dead and gone, why hadn’t the Order played their precious hidden card and built a potent savior from a clueless boy? There was no rationality to this…. unless.... what if… what if someone else outside the Order had known of the boy, someone with whom Dumbledore had shared the secret? For he must have known, or else Lord Voldemort would have found Harry Potter years ago. Someone else must have possessed knowledge of Harry’s whereabouts… surely they still did. This thought alone was enough to send his heart racing, several voices echoing through his head all at once. Some telling him to act carefully, others telling him not to.

A colorful flock of singing birds suddenly emerged from a grandfather clock placed on the opposite wall, stretching their artificial wings in their short flight across the ceiling, echoing a cheerful notice for nine and a half in the evening. Everything appeared to be testing his patience today. Then a thought struck.

“Correct me if I am wrong. Those sources you’ve mentioned, for good coordination, you shared those with my Dead Eaters?”

Blonde curls bounced up and down as Rita nodded.

“Yes, my lord, naturally. So came the higher orders.”

“Higher orders.”

“Yes, from you, my Lord.” 

It was useless to inform her the Dark Lord would never order this damaging dependence between two separate groups of action. At the same time it was proven that his capacity for patience was a finite resource. Before Rita could as much as blink, Voldemort’s hand moved, fingers sinking in the skin of her neck, invading her already skittish consciousness. He was not in the mood for gentless as he clawed through countless irrelevant memories, following a specific trail. _Harry Potter. Harry Potter. Harry Potter, orders, orders, orders_... Voldemort wandered in there, already angry, growing angrier at the wait. And then, a fleeting image, no more than a moment but narrowly enough to glimpse sight of the creature. Beady eyes, four legs and utterly immaterial, a stag made of smoke, a Patronus. And something else right after but in truth, so long after, and so soon in relation to him.

His wrath did not subside even after fully returning to his body, not enough answers at his disposal but answers all the same. Rita was panting and the Dark Lord was seething. Standing, he placed distance between him and the woman. His world was on the verge of crashing down and she made such noise! _She_. A traitor after all. But a useful traitor. One who was tricked by a clever individual in the past who now actively worked against Voldemort’s interests, hiding that the Order had gained certain insights on his Harry Potter, not knowing what hid beneath Harry’s skin. For a heartbeat he couldn't properly draw breath. Harry was in danger. His soul was in danger.

“I expect weekly updates on your data on the Order,” he hissed, already heading for the door. “A second failure will not be tolerated.”

The Dark Lord now knew four things for sure ― he harbored a dangerous traitor in his ranks, Harry’s whereabouts may be known, the Order was looking for the boy and the Order itself was located in Ukraine. In spite of the implied complications, he was wiser than he had been that morning. With that in mind Voldemort could feel the woman’s stare on him as he walked away. He still wondered if the mercy of letting her live had been wise and, if not, whether he should rectify the error at a later point in his indefinite time.

*** * ***

“Hello.”

“Hello back,” Voldemort smiled from his place leaning against the wall and Harry appeared utterly charmed by those two words alone.

His horcrux looked utterly spectacular, pitcth-black attire impeccable and pretty face perfect, enchanted by cleverly applied makeup. People were running from one place to the other before the performance was set to begin and the Dark Lord had wanted to catch a glimpse of his soul before that. He got more ― a greeting, a not-so-secret smile. Then they parted with one lingering glance and Voldemort went to occupy the best seat magic could provide. And, as the red curtain was drawn, he kept thinking, thinking and thinking and his thoughts were all vile.

Every breath Harry took away from him represented a risk for Lord Voldemort ― the Order or the mysterious third party could take action, the boy’s magic could be cultivated in an undesired manner, the Dark Lord’s soul potentially taken away and in peril. A disaster waiting to happen as Harry twirled in another man’s arms accompanied by a serene melody. The implications and the blind possessiveness, perhaps jealousy, filled him with a kind of horror akin to nausea. A horror he hadn’t experienced in decades, the horror of losing. And at once his superior intellect was at work, threading a narrative most beneficial to himself and himself only. Unknowingly he had wasted so many years. But not anymore. 

A direct action proved necessary for a certain outcome. So the chosen narrative commenced.

The mind of Harry’s dance partner was weak, mailable beyond words and meaning. Two breaths later his intent struck its target. It tasted like a mistake somehow, but only vaguely. 

Entertwined in an intricate twirl, the muggle stepped hard on the lower part of Harry’s leg. The music played even as his horcrux collapsed and people stood and cried out, Voldemort along them yet silent. He was alongside Harry at once, clutching his lithe hand, watching his pale face struggle not to break into sobs. He failed a second later as the boy caught sight of the bone stretching out the purple-black skin in an unnatural direction. Harry was losing his breath as his world came crashing down on him and Voldemort’s emotions were a riot, as he watched the anguish he himself had induced with obvious purpose.

Harry’s cries filled his ears. It brought forth no pleasure ― but neither guilt. Just discomfort and all discomfort was passing in its nature, therefore not important.

“Hush, you are going to live,” he whispered to the boy as a nurse arrived and closed down on the injured limb.

With his head in Voldemort’s lap, Harry shook his head, again and again and again.

“No no, I―I’ll die, I’ll never dance again! I’ll―”

The Dark hushed him, petting his head as one would do to a child, or so he presumed.

“Look at me, Harry. Yes, hold my gaze and remember, this too will pass, just like anything else. Now sleep. Sleep now. Sleep.”

He himself brought down the curtains on Harry’s delirious mind.

  
  
  


*** * ***

A certain tiredness animated Lord Voldemort. Nearly an hour before dawn, Harry’s eyes once again fluttered open while in his bed, still severely feverish. His horcrux had drifted in and out of consciousness time and time again while Voldemort had witnessed it all at his bedside, not wishing sleep for himself but nonetheless lacking common energy. Something twisted beneath his skin, something akin to discomfort.

_He needed to occupy himself._

And so, only a moment before Harry regained a semblance of awareness, the Dark Lord took the decision to see to other pressing business, for he had stared at his horcrux long enough, now forever safe in his bed. But now Harry blinked at him, brows furrowed, blinking, blinking and blinking and once again blinking.

“Tom,” was all he could manage at first.

Sighing, Voldemort returned to his chair next to where the boy rested.

“Yes. You are safe. With me.”

Judging by sight alone, Harry was not entirely rational… but not entirely delirious either. For only a moment his brilliant green eyes darted away from the Dark Lord’s face, taking the room in all its unfamiliarity. His brows furrowed even further.

“Where… where am I?”

“My room, in my house.”

“Why?”

_So many questions_. The perfect chance to mold the boy’s mind as he wished yet… Voldemort chose to wait. _For as long as possible_ , the inner corners of his mind supplied for he held a most perverse desire to see this all crash and burn before mending it all together, piece by piece.

“Because I need to take care of you and for that I need you close to me. But now I also need to see to other things of utter importance,” the Dark Lord answered truthfully.

His response was met with a slow nod, at least before Harry registered the actual meanings behind what he had been told. Lips moved clumsily before words came forth.

“But why…. why take care of me? Leaving? Leaving where? Why? Why leave? Why?” As panic and perhaps vague realization settled in, Harry weakly reached for him, quivering hands and pleading eyes, foolish and useless weapons.

“Don’t leave me alone,” begged the boy, tears glistening in his eyes. “ _Please, please don’t go_. _Please, Tom_!” 

Voldemort followed with a gentle tone, but he caught the boy’s wrist in a firm grip. “Do not worry, I will be here next time you awake, that much I promise.”

“But―”

“No. No arguing.”

Standing, he willed sleep upon his restless horcrux now reaching a second discomforting realization, free hand blindly darting to his injured leg. There was silence and there was crying, the later gradually decreasing as the Dark Lord’s spell lulled the crying boy into an unconsciousness as deep as the ocean and twice as dark. 

Harry still sobbed softly as Voldemort left the room. Once again, discomfort curled down to his very bones.

And… his sudden summoning into unknown realms promised a certain failure as soon as he Appeared at the unfamiliar place, a place made of shadows and darkness, mostly illuminated by the wands of his few present followers rather than the moon. Voldemort stepped over debris, carelessly crushing material beneath the heel of his foot before he took notice of the dismembered bodies. Not only debris he had walked upon. Rot had not yet settled in, so no putrid smell has served as warning before such sight. Violence had never affected him… but violence against those in his service was a different thing entirely. In silence, Lucius and Barty watched the Dark Lord as he drew near the carnage, trampling blood and guts all the same. Potent anger bubbled inside like a promise, fingers twitching around his wand, a mantra of calmness and patience sorting through his erratic thoughts ― it will not do to lose his temper now.

“The Order.”

It was not a question, merely an acknowledgment. From the corner of his eyes he saw Lucius turn paler than his hair. Setting the most vicious parts of his wrath aside, Voldemort chose words for now.

“Tell me.”

The tale proved predictable to his thought pattern. Ambush, unknown attacker, slaughter. But for what reason were his minions here in the first place? Not even one metre away from his left shoe, Yaxley’s severed head offered no answer. Instead he stared, silently, face etched in permanent terror against an imminent death that had already sinked its claws into what little flesh he had left on his bones. More fuel fed Lord Voldemort’s anger. _The faceless traitor in Rita’s memories. The culprit behind what was before him now._ The one who silently mocked at his inability to protect his followers... part of his followers.

The Dark Lord nearly snapped his precious wand in half.

“Anything else?” he addressed his two followers without looking at any of them. 

A long pause as they tasted the uncertainty of his question and its countless possibilities. Some painless, some not.

“No, my Lord.”

_Such incompetence. But enough of this._

He plunged into Lucius’ mind first, tearing at consolidated defenses and fabricated memories to find him in no ties to this slaughter. An instant later Lucius wobbled as Voldemort stalked towards Barty with obvious intention. No resistance met his prodding and no accusation either, both men innocent of this one crime. None knew of the stag or of Rita, none had betrayed him. None provided solutions.

The Dark Lord placed distance between him and his minions ― both dead and alive.

“Bring Rita to me,” he instructed in a low hiss. “Barty, I want you there for future developments. We shall discuss the specifics.”

“My lord,” Lucius spoke from behind.

Voldemort turned, his treacherous patience on the point of fatal rupture.

“Speak already.”

“Pardon my interruption but there… there are words scribbled onto Carrow's forehead.”

Right away the Dark Lord inched to the mangled body in question, circling limbs and mud and guts. And there, perched on top of a small pile of other cadavres, obscured by another pile, awaited a body accompanied by a message. The coincidence of its particular placement in relation to Harry’s scar did not escape his notice ― little did. And the words… each time Voldemort considered he had reached the peak of wrath, he was proven wrong by yet another unpleasant development of an already unpleasant situation.

_May your forever perish in a year._

His companions read and reread the words carved into Carrow’s forehead from behind his shoulder, shallow breathing betraying their reaction. But the Dark Lord’s rage was far more silent, far more unpredictable. Far more cold.

“Yes, my followers, yes,” Voldemort growled in vicious anger, providing answers to unsaid questions. “It is time to hunt once more. I find myself wishing for many severed heads and you shall provide.”

A heartbeat later he was alone with the dead, only the vacant rattling of absolute silence meeting his ears. This place crafted out of shadows was a monument dedicated to his failure, to his inability to protect those who had placed their trust in him. Gritting his teeth, and not without irony, Voldemort brought light. He brought fire to burn it all down and way beyond ground. Into nonexistence. And just like the red tongues of the fire, he himself burned for violence.

No matter, all at the right moment, time to return to his horcrux now. Time to breathe in a sliver of peace as the fire spread and spread, looking for the hidden prey to feed its famished jaws. 

*** * ***

Calculations were made. None offered potent results. And so he ceased them until future development, until Rita and the Order…for later.

Rain rippled against the high windows of his bedroom while Harry was more than asleep but less than dead. Periodically, more often than he would like, Voldemort’s eyes flickered away from the book he was reading to the boy. A pattern ― pages, rain smashing into glass, Harry’s chest in a nearly silent game of up and down. Then the book again, and the process replicated itself so many times that the Dark Lord abandoned the book for he was no longer reading it. No, he was watching his living and breathing unfathomable creation, entertained by such sight alone.

_Only another weight_ , he reminded himself, eyes trailing down parted lips and the birdlike structure of bones which crafted Harry’s exposed neck. _A most arousing kind of weight._ The Dark Lord stood, stalking for the bed where his prize waited… unknowing, dreaming. Pleasant dreams? Nightmares? But did he truly care?

_Ah, it would be so easy so cut him open on that bed and watch him bleed, turning the dark sheets even darker… another time._

And so, careful not to make contact with the injured limb bulked underneath the covers, he leaned over his horcrux, mouths on the point of joining before Voldemort changed trajectory for the boy’s ear.

“Wake up,” he whispered his order, lips brushing the delicate skin to be found there.

_Come back to your Lord._

Harry’s eyelids fluttered open in struggling motions. Confusion morphed into acceptance… then he avoided Voldemort’s gaze to stare at the ceiling. Displasure bubbled underneath the Dark Lord’s skin ― _he would not be ignored_ ― until he caught sight of the solitary teardrops abandoning his horcrux’s green eyes. Harry Potter was crying and Voldemort had always detested crying people.

Keeping his worst impulses in check, his employed strategy became _waiting_. So Voldemort waited; waited for the whimpering to stop, for the boy to be the first to speak.

“I want my life back,” Harry let out at last, voice faint and quivering and still the ceiling was his point of focus, as if afraid to gaze anywhere else, as if said action would make everything else more real.

Or perhaps he sensed Lord Voldemort’s silent disapproval.

“You live still.”

“So what? What am I good at besides dancing? Nothing. There’s nothing now. _Nothing_.”

Taking root in his chest, the abrupt feeling of loss fascinated the Dark Lord. But it was his own soul he was grieving for. Harry’s suffering could translate into his own suffering in a way. It was only rational to keep that irrational reaction in mind.

“Let go of pointless drama and understand there is no point in finding purpose in external factors. In the privacy of your own mind build yourself as a purpose and yourself only. This way you will always be at peace with yourself, whatever… unfortunate happening may befall you.”

Harry sniffed, yet the corner of his lips curled into a small smile. _Small victories won the great war, indeed._

“That is one of the wisest things I've ever heard… and difficult to do.”

“Everything worthy is.”

“Wise again.”

“Am I wise?”

A shrug. An infuriating shrug which pressed just _wrong_ for the Dark Lord. And indeed… staying had its perks.

Rain rung louder than it should while he discarded his coat before leaning down, caging Harry with his body, arms on either side of the boy’s head. His horcrux flinched, then flinched some more at the pain such movement brought forth, twisting his already twisted leg in an unnatural angle to accommodate Voldemort, all this in spite of his reaction.

“What―”

The ghost of a smirk upon his lips, the Dark Lord trailed his mouth across the boy’s neck. It took only a heartbeat to win this battle as Harry writhed against him, a weak creature who in spite of his weakness made Lord Voldemort’s blood boil with the need to have, to possess, to _anything and everything_. He kissed Harry, molding his lips against reluctant ones muttering irrelevant protests, until at last his horcrux twisted his fingers into the hair at the back of Voldmort’s neck and tugged him closer, pulling all his weight on top of him. And still it was not enough.

As he separated their mouths to draw breath, Harry's eyes glittered in the low light, aroused but nonetheless frightened. _Such a sight_. With great enjoyment, the Dark Lord’s fingers trailed over his horcrux’s damp cheeks, fresh tears easing his journey down the boy’s neck ― a boy who appeared caught between a _no_ and an _yes_ , both quite irrelevant for Voldemort at the moment. 

“You―you want to have sex…” Harry uttered against his mouth, quivering fingers at the hem of Voldemort’s shirt.

“I do.”

“But my leg ―”

“You and your leg will be well taken care of. Now spread them, Harry. Spread them now.”

The refusal hanging on Harry’s lips extinguished, turning into mewls as the Dark Lord lapped between his collarbones and parted the boy’s legs himself. Two more times his horcrux engaged in protests and half-hearted _no’s_ before Voldemort’s patience grew even thinner and his desire even more potent. There was an inner burning to satisfy. And satisfy he did.

In no time at all their clothes were scattered, some on the bed next to them, some on the wooden floors. _Tom’s_ name was called and called, at times in pleasure, at times in pain yet it held power all the same. Harry had a semblance of control even with a broken leg and with the Dark Lord between his thighs. It made Voldemort want to make him ache and weep, made him want to run his hands through the boy’s hair before viciously pulling at it… but still he cupped Harry’s face in a gentle grip as he pounded into the weak body which harbored his extraordinary soul. This too, just as the two of them, was a contradiction.

Fucking proved surprisingly effective to quiet all those nagging thoughts. When Harry panted in his mouth and the prodding bone in his useless leg dragged against the Dark Lord’s side, different sensations that both dictated the punishing rhythm of his hips. Want, discomfort, vindication then want again. Glued bodies, greedy hands, lips thirsty for another pair of lips, it was never enough. 

And Harry moaned so prettly as Voldemort fucked him even harder, leaving purple bruises on his quivering thighs. Each time he slammed inside his horcrux’s body, his tongue traced the boy’s face, moist from fresh tears, _and each time it was not enough_. Perhaps another time he would have cared for more self control. Now instinct took over as the Dark Lord rolled them over, bringing his horcrux to bounce in his lap.

“Tom! That hurts! My leg I―“

With Voldemort’s hand around his throat, Harry choked and shuddered, gravity and his own lack of strength in his lower limbs impaling him even further down the Dark Lord cock ― they both gasped. He rolled his hips upwards and the wobbly creature curled above Voldemort’s body, as if seeking protection from torment, hiding his face in the crook of his neck, open mouth brushing skin with every move of their joined middle. The horcrux recognized his main soul, after all… but Lord Voldemort did not feel more complete in comparison… no, he felt even more _lacking_.

The fact he still sought Harry’s lips… it terrified. And Harry kissed right back, in pain as he was. Those revealed much for them both. _Weakness_ , concluded the Dark Lord as his hips stalled inside the now limp body above his. In his arms Harry was learning to breathe again and Voldemort was learning too ― but other things.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful bet, ladykb !

As soon as Lord Voldemort blinked his eyes open he realized the other side of the bed was vacant… vacant and _cold_ , his wandering fingers discovered. The fact that he bawled both hands into fists was a direct consequence of said discovery. _Harry was supposed to be in his bed. He was supposed to wait here, injured and vulnerable as he was. And… in no fathomable reality was Voldemort supposed to allow himself fall asleep besides the boy._

For the first time in his lengthy existence Lord Voldemort had laid unconscious with another person in his bed. The dawning realization sent shivers down his spine as he stood, dressed himself with mechanically and went in search of his soul who had no means to be far from the Dark Lord’s presence… and he truly was not. 

Silent and perhaps brooding, Voldemort stood in the doorway leading to the kitchen of his muggle apartment and watched Harry pick at the dry leaves of a stray houseplant. Its existence had taken a downturn since the demise of its previous owner. 

“You’re doing it wrong,” he called after a time of careful observation and vague annoyance. “That leaf you just plucked would have recovered with a bit of water. Not a plant expert it seems.”

“Don’t presume. I have a cactus at home.”

“Is it alive?”

“It’s green.”

Harry… in spite of his less than kind tone and last night’s dubious happenings… Harry _smiled_ at him, seeking a more comfortable position for his leg in the chair by the window. The blinding morning light made his green eyes appear even greener, his pink lips even pinker as they arched at the sight of the Dark Lord. In turn, Voldemort was persuaded to do the same. 

He really should kill this boy who murked the clear waters of his existence.

… and yet. 

_Lord Voldemort only watched Harry as he smiled._

“How is your leg?”

The smile faltered before returning once again, far less believable than the first one had been. His horcrux blinked away sudden tears, shrugging his obvious response. Voldemort neared, lacking a well-crafted reason for such action… as most things concerning Harry seemed to.

“Useless,” the boy said at last.

“Useless for now,” the Dark Lord corrected. “Not forever.”

He would not permit any permanent fault to befall his horcrux. Such a tactic as this one currently at play would soon lose its usefulness and Harry will properly walk again ― not _freely_ , but _properly_. Lord Voldemort might have fought a smirk at the implications.

Harry’s eyes were on him and then not on him, quite obviously torn between a desire for speaking and a reluctance to do so. Ever the merciful person, the Dark Lord took pity on him. 

“Don’t be shy. Tell me whatever it is you want to say.”

Silence met his request, therefore more drastic measures were in store. He scooped the startled boy up in his arms, usurping his previous position in the chair. With Harry in his lap, soft hair tickling Voldemort’s chin, he prompted once again, this time in an unspoken manner, by touch ― his horcrux was so weak when it came to it, after all.

“Why am I not home?”

Voldemort smiled even if Harry could not see.

“I told you last night. It’s easier this way.” Then he delivered a low-blow. “Besides, my apartment is far larger than your flat, more space to meet your special needs. And I’m here with you.”

He felt Harry still in his arms from the shame. Another point in support of his theory ― Harry grew quiet when negative emotions were directed his way. Then a passing thought struck… Voldemort missed the other Harry, the cheerful one, the one that teased and laughed like a child and shamelessly flirted with him in public places. The frightened bird in his arms was an unknown creature to dance with. The Dark Lord was not yet able to decide if this Harry entertained or not. But… as he considered the frail body above him one thing was indeed quite sure. Dreams, instinct, ambitions... all of him craved this boy. Yes, craved, but not necessarily liked.

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.”

Voldemort hummed as if caring before pressing a lingering kiss on top of Harry’s head. _His in all aspects that mattered._ Then Harry sought his hand in order to interlock their fingers and indeed the chosen narrative begined to make sense, by unaltered means only. The Dark Lord was nearly disappointed a part of his soul was this trusting, this foolish, but then again, such trust was for him, the only one worthy of it. _Useless thoughts which brought forth useless complications that were better to ignore if possible._ As it was, Lord Voldemort had enough to deal with at the moment. He pushed away the image of Carrow’s severed head from his mind for the moment. There was a right time for everything.

“I had a strange dream last night,” Harry confessed in the crook of his neck, warm breath playing across Voldemort’s skin. “It was only a nightmare at first but then ―”

“Then what, Harry?”

“I… no, nothing. I don’t think you’d be interested. It’s pretty stupid.”

“I am interested in everything about you.”

Harry shuddered in his arms and Voldemort could only sigh in approval.

“Ok, fine, so… at first it was about my leg but that’s not important because it was obvious why I dreamt of it. Anyways, in it my leg was all twisted and bloody and I was crying and screaming and then I fell and when I finally lifted my head from the floor, I actually lifted it from mud! And in the mud was a head, a human head with words cut in his forehead! And suddenly I was so angry! No longer fearful, but angry. I didn’t even feel like me in a way… it didnt feel like a dream at all, I suppose.”

He tasted a familiar taste… a test.

For longer than a second, it proved incredibly difficult for Voldemort to keep his worst instincts in check, to sit there and play a patient lover instead of a man who discovered his hand had a mind of its own and the actual mind had not been aware of it. Harry Potter had seen through his eyes and the Dark Lord had not known! What else had he seen? What else could he see? Why didn't Lord Voldemort perceive the intrusion?

_And was th_ _ere_ _conscious intent_ _?_

In that moment Harry was more than Harry Potter, more than his horcrux ― Harry represented a quiet, terrible potential. The ambition beneath Voldemort’s skin whispered _nurture it_ , caution dedicated to _smothered it down_ before it grew sharp teeth in need of a bite.

“Strange dream,” he heard himself saying while bubbling with annoyance. “But all strange dreams are normal dreams, and normal dreams are strange dreams. Just strange.”

“My dreams are always strange.”

A thread appeared with this one sentence, a thread Voldemort pulled at with mastery, careful not to tear it to shreds.

“Strange in what aspect?”

“Just strange. Nearly magical. No, _actua_ _lly_ magical.”

Ah, slowly but surely, everything crawled into exposure. Lord Voldemort tapped his fingers against Harry’s thigh, glimpsing danger… and offered possibility.

“I bet you can barely stop yourself from laughing,” Harry chuckled in faint but misplaced amusement.

“Do you hear me laughing?”

“No but ― but we’re talking about _magic_!”

“Indeed we are.”

This particular subject stole Harry’s attention away from his maimed leg. It brought sparks into his eyes, it excited, just like the retelling of an engaging and loved story. As he rambled about green lights, flying motorcycles and severed heads, Voldemort deliberated. To tell or not to tell? Which was wise, which was risky…. or… was _wise_ even beneficial to the Dark Lord? And.. did Harry know a game was being played?

The choice shouldn’t be taken hastily.

And Harry still talked as Voldemort’s fingers threaded through his hair, humming at the appropriate times. Strangest of all, there was enjoyment in this activity, or lack thereof. When Harry talked he did so with excitement and glee and forgot for a time of his physical incapacity. The leg. Voldemort’s eyes dropped to it, where it rested above its own. Irrational unease coiled in the pit of his stomach, stirring the peaceful waters.

Apparent peaceful waters, he reminded himself.

*** * ***

Little over three hours later, Voldemort barely tamed a frown upon arriving at Malfoy’s manor and finding none other than Draco in the waiting room. The boy became aware of his presence at once, hands clasped behind his back to hide their trembling, dull eyes on his polished shoes. Now there _was_ a frown upon the Dark Lord’s face, not diminishing even at the sight of Narcissa hurriedly entering the room, going straight for her only son, seeking his hands

Very soon it became very clear that something was amiss.

“Speak,” he ordered.

“My Lord. There’s —” she interrupted herself, blinking as if caught into a battle before discovering it had already been done with. “Please follow me.”

Narcissa led him to a separate wing from the usual one where meetings were held. Draco followed dutifully behind to what appeared to be the dormitories, a rather secluded part of the manor . Setting foot inside the target room, Lord Voldemort came to a halt at the sight which met his eyes. Two proud men not so proud anymore. One tall by the window, deep gashes on his face while the other… on the bed.

Barty with his marks and Lucius with two fingers remaining on either hand, the big and the little one, a nearly amusing sight if not for the implications — if not for the person.

“Am I to assume the threat is far more potent than originally presumed?”

His silent malice made the ghostly pale Lucius pale even more. There was no surprise that Barty was the one to answer.

“They were waiting for us when we went to fetch Skeeter, my Lord. She did not respond to your summoning so we took the liberty of demanding her unworthy presence. At the house…” the man made a grimace which twisted his already twisted features into an unpleasant mask. “They were there. She was not. Me and Lucius were gravely outnumbered but that is no excuse for our loss. We beg and crave your forgiveness.”

“ _They_. The Order? _They_?”

Lucius was still to utter a single word as his wife orbited closer to him, her emotionless façade near a pitiful crumble.

“Not a complete factual presumption, but I have reasons to believe that yes… but not only. The Order and someone else, something else. This something else _and_ the Order lurking back at the traitorous bitch’s house, better said. The fighting and their strategy were too vicious for the stuttering Order… too alike our own. And what they left us…”

From underneath his robes, Barty produced a surprising sight — eight bloodied fingers strung together in a nearly childish bracelet. Behind him, Draco produced a choked sound. Lord Voldemort himself was less than unbothered. Wrath bubbled beneath his skin, a wrath with two directions: the enemy and his own followers for being so descript. Yet, at the moment, the deed being done, there was no valuable point in directly assigning blame or serving punishment. Lucius and Barty had paid enough. 

Another, more distant part of Voldemort simply hoped the younger Malfoy would not share the insides of his stomach in this scarce audience.

“I have built my strategy on the presumption I am responding to one enemy alone, the Order. I do not believe it… practical to continue in this assumption. Rita was playing her own little games but as of late she interrupted mine.” His eyes met Barty’s. “I need full involvement for this warfare. Surveillance, countersurveillance, spycraft… I need to know everything. Soon. And I do make a promise. There will be a brutal, merciless revenge. Care for your wounds in the meantime, only death is the end.”

In spite of clever words, there was no healing for either of them — no unblemished face waiting for Barty, no fully functional hands ready for Lucius. Magical cripples, one more so than the other. But cripples thirsty for revenge were still useful… naturally, all within reason and purpose.

Nodding his departure to the Malfoys, he motioned for Barty to accompany him outside. The door closed with a muffled _thud_.

“How may I serve, my Lord?”

In response, Voldemort skimmed through Barty’s consciences like a book. Trust had never been within his nature.

*** * ***

Music echoed in his apartment… and not classical music. Rhythmic sounds alluding to moving hips pointed his way to where Harry was, on the balcony, staring at the people fretting below in their daily lives. The music proved to have an external source… neighbors. Yet his horcrux appeared to be enjoying it just the same, humming along to what for him was a familiar song. Perhaps a favorite. 

“Bad day at work?”

At Harry’s raised eyebrow and sudden question, Voldemort’s humor was only half amusing, even to his own ears.

“Bad day at home?”

“Wow. _Very_ bad day it seems.”

“Indeed,” he affirmed, facing Harry as he leaned against the balcony, staring the boy down as the boy stared up at him. “All matters regarding… _governance_ are complicated.”

Green eyes appeared surprisingly sad. 

“You know this isn’t normal, don’t you?”

It was turning out to indeed be a very bad day and Lord Voldemort’s patience was thinning… dangerously so

“What isn’t normal, Harry?”

“This,” his horcrux gestured between them with a shrug. “I mean… I have known you for only a few weeks and yes, you’re an amazing boyfriend and all that but, logically, I should not have any business in staying here with you — especially in this situation. It’s not appropriate.” Then Harry laughed. “You could be a mass-murderer for all I know.”

“You don’t strike me as one who cares a lot about what’s normal and what’s not,” Voldemort spoke as he scooped Harry up in his arms, heading to the bedroom, stomping on the urge for violence and quick but permanent solutions. “Besides, there are stranger things in life than allowing me to take care of you.”

The boy giggled not before long, arms around his neck, shadows still in his eyes.

“A proposal,” Voldemort suggested in response to such a sight.

“How official… a proposal. Propose then.”

They danced a strange dance of teasing followed by tense moments, dictated not only by him, but also by Harry. The Dark Lord supposed the…. injured leg and its implication was taking its toll on the boy’s mental health, that and the isolation. As for himself, Harry had summarized it quite efficiently, _a very bad day._

“Go see your friends. Have a drink together. Talk.”

No excitement at his attractive proposal. Harry’s gaze did not light up, he only grew more quiet and still against Voldemort’s chest as they lay in bed.

“You mean well, but what’s the actual point? I can’t do the things I did before. I’d just burden them… like I burden you.”

_So self-sabotaging_. How very… _infuriating_. 

“Trust me, darling, I do not bother with things which burden me. Especially people.”

Harry blinked at him, slender fingers tracing Voldemort’s jaw with barely contained adoration.

“How are you so sweet?” He followed with a theatrically narrowing of his pretty eyes. “Are you sure you’re not a mass-murderer, after all?

“Careful now, people grow used to what they are called.”

The following laugh is predictable but the Dark Lord does not laugh in return. A risky gamble, especially as magic was involved. The maimed leg rested above his own as his horcrux made plans with concealed enthusiasm and Voldemort listened just so. Long-term deceiving was not viable, not sure, not productive. But the truth served him even less. Yet… perhaps not the whole truth. Harry did not need to know everything.

“Harry, do you believe in magic?”

Everything stilled. No laughs, no giggles, only calm breathing on Voldemort’s part and no so calm on Harry’s part.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The breath against his neck trembled.

_The filthy liar_. Lord Voldemort was nearly impressed.

He pushed away from the bed, cradling his horcrux closer to his chest.

“Almost slipped my mind — I have a gift for you.”

Harry frowned, arms nonetheless coming up around the Dark Lord’s neck.

“It’s not my birthday.”

“I know.”

“Also, not a special occasion.”

“I disagree.”

Then, Voldemort Appeared him and his charge right away.

The very next moment Harry gasped, fingers digging into the Dark Lord’s shoulders and Lord Voldemort vaguely considered letting him fall onto the muddy ground. The thought was only faintly gratifying, therefore not worth it. But Harry’s gasp was quite controlled compared to expectations, therefore not his first time being involved in this specific magical act. It was Voldemort’s turn to tighten his hold on the boy’s body.

“Hush, darling,” he called with faint malice, even though Harry was deadly quiet.

Then he was not so quiet as Voldemort turned with his horcrux in his arms.

He knew what heavy-breathing Harry saw… a long-necked nightmare. A nightmare warped in scales and spiky crystal-like formations running down his spine. The dragon was enormous, monstrous both in size and appearance, all while two beady dark eyes watched the sudden visitors with feracious intelligence. The being made of obsidian proved still as tendrils of the Dark Lord’s magic hovered above his body like invisible, equally clawed, limbs.

The boy was speechless as he stared at the dragon the same way, once upon a time, a child had looked at planes carrying bombs over a grey sky.

_His horcrux was indeed not stupid._

A fact which… was a tricky blade, to say the least.

“You’re a smart boy. But not as smart as you think you are.”

Harry was and breathed tension, ice-cold fingers against Voldemort’s neck, audible and erratic breaths right next to his ear. But, in spite of everything, he still held onto the Dark Lord. Smart boy indeed… yet this only implied a gamble, apparently on both parts, but in unequal measures. Then again, a little truth was always entertaining amid so many lies and the Dark Lord had grown unused to masks since decades ago. Wolves had no need to pretend to be sheep. And if sheep tried to play at being wolves, they risked nothing but their own skins.

“Are you… are you going to kill me?”

“Depends,” Voldemort lied as he slowly placed Harry’s legs onto the ground, still supporting his entire weight. “Depends only on you.”

The dragon huffed a breath before Harry clumsy took a step forward, turned and stared back at Voldemort with wide green eyes. His horcrux seemed both very terrified and very confused.

“I have two theories,” The Dark Lord spoke, advancing. To his credit, Harry did not move, either too trusting in Voldemort, or afraid to inch any closer to the dragon than they already were. “One, you’re a filthy liar deceiving a member of his own species… unlikely if I say so myself, or, two, you’re a boy afraid of himself and of what he does and does not understand. I gamble on option two. Did I win?”

The unnatural widening of Harry’s pupils was answer enough.

“What are you?”

“No, Harry, what are _we_.”

This time when he submerged himself into the boy’s consciousness, he did not hide his presence or be subtle in any way. What Voldemort now did represented an unlikely action for him — he had always employed the mind arts in strictly extraction purposes, not pumping information into a being now welcoming his intrusion like a ferociously intelligent sponge would do to water — perhaps the horcrux was at fault, perhaps only Harry himself.

Naturally, the feeding was calculated, a tactic beyond anything else.

The Dark Lord kneeled before the now collapsed boy in the mud. Testing a potential resistance and meeting none, he cradled Harry’s face between his palms and Harry… well, Harry looked like a child who had just been told he either could fix or break the world — petrified and incredibly eager. Yet, when the boy’s fingers thread between Voldemort’s own, the Dark Lord knew a test was coming.

“Why lie if you know so much?” A pause. “Why pretend?”

“You didn’t catch my attention because you were a wizard,” Voldemort answered truthfully. “What followed after… those were complications I finally decided to solve… as you’ve just seen.”

Suck kindness from his part registered in Harry’s eyes as the boy began a tentative smile, countless questions already upon his lips. But, what his horcrux failed to register was the metaphorical rope he had twisted around his neck before offering the other end to the Dark Lord — now he dictated the quantity of air feeding Harry’s lungs… or so to say. And ah, the blind loyalty in those green orbs… and how could he not be loyal in the face of such kindness, in the face of the man who had shown him so much, who had explained the mystery he had considered himself to be all his life? 

No, this bet was arranged from the very start, placing a somewhat anticlimactic end to one of the two games Lord Voldemort had found himself playing lately. Meanwhile, Harry neared the obsidian dragon, misunderstanding his proclaimed gift but there was nothing to be gained by correcting him and so, The Dark Lord played along, even to the childish wish to ride the creature. But of course, Harry believed himself special now, Voldemort knew the feeling all too well. He watched the boy find a visible comfortable position on the spiky back as the dragon opened his wings with ease, Voldemort’s magic forcing the beast aware of his weightless burden.

Against expectation, the day had taken a pleasant turn. Now he smiled as Harry smiled, knowing that so many explanations remained to be offered, so many irksome conversations. The dance may have changed, but that did not mean there was no dance at all. Lying was still part of the game — a more pleasant game now, when the Dark Lord had an annoyingly pestering rebellion to squash.

At least a front was in a quiet, waiting peace.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful bet, ladykb !

“Take me with you.”

“Harry, Harry… you could sweet-talk me into many things. This is not one of them.”

The boy crossed his arms, terribly stubborn, which did not conceal the cunning beneath his innocent wish, at least not from the Dark Lord.

“Fine then. I’m not sweet-talking you, I’m making an appeal to your rationality. You trained me incredibly well these past few weeks, yet I think I should see and interact with other wizards in order to be an actual wizard. Meet our kind.”

Harry’s rationality had few faults and, once again, Lord Voldemort was caught between pride and anger, feeding or smothering the breathing potential right before his eyes. So here they were, assessing one another… _negotiating_ , one could say. The muggle apartment no longer serving any purpose had been abandoned in favour of the Dark Lord’s manor at a location he, oh so accidently, forgot to share with Harry. The boy did not ask more than twice.

“Why are you smiling so meanly?” Harry asked, taking the necessary few steps down to meet Voldemort in front of their residence. 

“You are an amusing individual if you think you can manipulate me.”

“Is it working?”

“Of course not.”

Nonetheless, he extended a hand to Harry and those green eyes lit-up like the Killing Curse. The not-so-subtle act of psychological warfare did not mean Harry’s arguments didn’t hold certain merits, just not the ones his horcrux envisioned. No, the Dark Lord aimed for something other than simply opening Harry’s horizons… to ease the boy into his specific way of life. Bit by bit, like entering the ocean, you did not think much of it at first, but then you moved forward and the water was up to your knees and then a bit farther, to your chest… and then you drowned. He did not wish for Harry’s death but the comparison was effectively appropriate. Not to mention, visually entertaining. 

He _Appeared_ them both to the feeling of Harry’s hand in his.

“This house is… wow. Just wow,” the boy breathed as he spun in slow circles, wide stare following his surroundings. 

As a rule, Malfoy Manor often invoked such feelings, especially at first sight.

“Do you wish for it?”

Harry only laughed.

“Come, they waited long enough.”

He could have Appeared them inside the meeting room, but there was a purpose in having Harry witness even the most insignificant parts of this journey. It invoked familiarity and a certain respect for the unknown family his horcrux was soon to meet, a family he was bound to find impressive. Besides, in Harry’s ears poured only the words of those deemed appropriate by Lord Voldemort, those who respected power — the power the Dark Lord embodied. All while Harry had the diffused perspective he was a ferociously popular leader. Voldemort had neither denied or offered legitimacy to the presumption. 

Proud faces watched the pair entering the room, before becoming not so proud anymore. Curiosity lurked in their silence as Voldemort and his horcrux took a seat at the table, but all were wise enough to keep their tongues in check. Severus, especially, frowned at the boy. At his right, Harry watched them in turn. There was something uncanny in those green eyes, a realization — it appeared he was not finding the presumed enjoyment in the midst of his species. For Voldemort that had always been a possibility, where kindness and warmth were not so much. Just as the Dark Lord was not loved but respected, Harry’s attitude should grow the same to his people. Perhaps not soon… but in time. 

“Do tell. Developments?”

His current way of addressing proved a bit tricky in the sense Voldemort should try to appear more as a politician and less than a ruthless ruler. For Harry’s sake. Naturally, not completely, as such a thing proved impossible — his horcrux had eyes, his followers had no reason to hide their nature and the Dark Lord enjoyed too many dangerous games to fully change the paradigm of who he was. So, let Harry draw his own conclusions. 

“My Lord.” Avery’s grave tone signaled much more than a simple _development_. “We searched but… the search found us.”

Unsettlement was plain to read in the man’s gaze if one knew what to look for. Unsettlement regarding the subject and unsettlement in the way he stared from Harry to the Dark Lord, as if wondering just how much he should dare say. Seeing that Voldemort had no visible reaction, tense or otherwise, Avery appeared to meet a bit of calmness. 

“Explain.”

The Dark Lord frowned at the look shared between Avery and Rodolphus.

“I believe it’s better if we let her explain.”

As if magically summoned, heels echoed on the marble floor and as soon as Voldemort caught sight of Rita Skeeter, he felt a headache creeping in. Then bottomless anger, remembering Carrow’s severed head oh so vividly. _May your forever perish in a year._ Watching her step closer, the Dark Lord feigned calmness, even though he was being eaten away from within. 

From his right, Harry observed everything in silence.

“Speak, Rita. Speak before I change my mind.”

Then she did so and Voldemort’s wand nearly had a mind of its own. 

“It’s so pleasant to finally have a Potter among us. The last ones were rather short-lived.”

Murmurs echoed all around the table while Rita sported a smug smile as she remained on her feet. It became clear the woman held certain assurances in order to afford such behavior, or general presence — ages apart from the way she had cowered before the Dark Lord only days before. Then again, many things could change in little time. 

“Let me know the message and abstain from useless chatter. For your own good.”

Harry’s eyes were fixated on his own as Rita flinched in foolish surprise at him naming her not-so-hidden-purpose. His horcrux was a problem on its own, but right now Voldemort’s attention should be in its appropriate place. What should have been an ordinary briefing had turned out to be quite unpleasant… and potentially dangerous… for various reasons.

“I am but a humble massager… my Lord,” added Rita in a mockery of respect. “You see, I came in peace. And, well, the Order wanted to deliver a message. Personally.”

She came to a halt as Voldemort stood, creeping in behind Harry’s chair, all pairs of eyes besides the green ones following his motions.

“Go on. The clock is ticking and I am a busy man.”

“Yes, as I was saying… the Order wants to sign a peace treaty in exchange for a _cease-fire_ , in lack of a better term. They have certain demands, naturally.”

“Naturally. But I wonder… is it custom for those noble people of the Order to behead and mutilate my men before making their peace offerings?”

The Dark Lord knew she was playing a game, but Rita was foolish enough to think him not aware. With the foreseen bait in place, her reaction did not disappoint… in the sense that the surprise was simulated by far. He wordlessly allowed her to continue — to lie. Amusingly enough, she thought herself extremely skilled at it, but none was more expert at lying than Lord Voldemort. 

He let her finish her rather disappointing discourse before patting his horcrux’s shoulder in what may have been paternal from a certain point of view. 

“Harry. I believe you should take a walk outside. I’ll join you shortly.”

Any other occasion, the boy would have argued, would have protested in a quite cheeky way and perhaps would have won — yet not today, not after opening the door to another part of his identity. Not now, after looking in Voldemort’s eyes. Pushing his chair back, Harry stared at his followers and his followers stared at Harry. And so, his horcrux gazed one last time around the table before doing as told. The Dark Lord and his followers waited in silence for him to do so. 

When the door closed, Draco jumped slightly from where he sat next to his mother, Lucius nowhere to be seen, as expected. Voldemort let the gesture pass as he extended a certain amount of tolerance towards Draco — who he considered one of Malfoy family’s less impressive products. Gaze trailing over all those seated beside the useless boy, Voldemort was once again reminded that one of those present here was a traitor. One of them had conjured the Patronus in Rita’s memories. 

“Rita,” he echoed, returning his full attention to the women. “I’m sure you have an opinion about my work — many do. None to my face, naturally. And you know my ways… partially. So answer your own question. Do you think I will bow my head in front of your offer?”

As she took a step back, Voldemort took a step forward. Another back, another forward and then yet another, until Rita nearly collided with the chimney in which no fire burned. He saw goosebumps rising on her flesh, invoking the silly image of a frightened chicken. 

“My lord… The Order knows there are many hard feelings between the two sides… but they’re tired… and they will bow if given a little mercy. They said as much.”

“Who said as much?”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

Voldemort pretended to consider her carefully crafted words, not only for her sake… but also for the unknown traitor watching from around the table. It ignited Voldemort’s laughter that they thought themselves so clever… or perhaps not. Yes, he would do well to play a safe game, in spite of expectations, experience and power. Voldemort had not become Lord Voldemort after underestimating people… and he knew there was another player at this metaphorical table of war besides him and the Order… if the Order was involved at all.

With measured steps he turned back to the table, politely inviting Rita to do the same. She watched him as some did with Nagini before doing as told, albeit slowly, seeking to conceal the tremor in her limbs.

“Write a letter,” he said, and at once ink and paper materialized before their eyes. “Schedule our peace talks.”

“Right away, my Lord.”

The familiar sound of the pen against paper filled the room, Voldemort knew the woman had something else in mind rather than peace — victory. But so did he. Naturally, she knew that… but so did he. 

The portraits faced away from him in heavy and pointed silence. Dead strangers, dead allies, dead enemies, all dead and long gone, all fearful... even after their demise. _Relics_ , Voldemort thought with distaste as he passed the ornate frames in one of the many hallways of the manor, following the familiar magical hum of his horcrux’s magic. It took no more than a heartbeat to do so. Indeed, Harry was easy to find. The long halls of Malfoy residence all led to the same place eventually; the enormous balcony on the second floor from where the courtyard could be admired. And Voldemort knew his horcrux was bound to admire a great deal of things about the domain. However, what he did not expect to find was Harry not sitting but gracefully padding along the narrow edge of the balcony, humming along to an unknown yet _known_ tune.

_Pacing, truly._

His green eyes met Voldemort’s at once, even if the Dark Lord’s entrance had been more than quiet, and purposefully so.

"You look like you've just found me sacrificing innocents to some ancient god.” 

“There are no gods,” Voldemort replied, closing in on the boy.

Harry didn’t laugh.

“And you’re not a politician.”

Not a question by any means.

“Any proof of your superior intellect does wonders to my soul.”

He extended a hand and Harry took it at once, hopping down from his high and expensive playground, landing as effortlessly as a cat would. From then on it was easy to pull his horcrux closer because Harry wanted to come.

“Did you hurt her?”

“Do you think I did?”

Harry stared through his dark lashes, chin up in a way only a stage performance required. Let them act, then.

“I think you don’t really care about what I think.”

“And I think you think more than you lead on. We both are great thinkers, some a bit less than others.”

He felt Harry’s fingers slightly jolt into his hold and Voldemort let go, curious if Harry would run…. only there was nowhere to run.

And indeed, Harry did something — but not run, just a simple step behind, as if testing the waters before diving right in. Lord Voldemort allowed no jumping into this metaphorical water. Naturally, he followed the pattern, physically or otherwise.

“Do you have something to tell me, Harry?”

“Not really. Just that I didn’t like it here — this family, cult meeting or whatever. Just that.”

The boy may be a good liar but Voldemort was an extraordinary one. Besides, now that the Dark Lord had begun to press and nudge, his horcrux had made a few wrong steps in his quest to follow the right direction. It confirmed a theory. One he wasn’t very fond of. 

_Or perhaps Harry had slipped quite intentionally._

“Talking to me is going to work in your favor.”

Harry took another step back and Voldemort’s fingers closed around his wand. Green eyes traced every movement yet the boy remained silent. 

_Then so be it._

“This wand is special — truly, in more ways than one. I believe you figured it out, but not completely. You aren’t that smart. That being said, I saw you glance at it with far more than curiosity and wonder… you looked at it with questions. So, Harry, if you don’t wish to offer me any answers, then ask. Ask about my wand. Ask about anything you wish.”

“I don’t care about your wand. And why? I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“Your clairvoyance amazes me…. but I digress, little liar.” Voldemort briefly lifted his wand and the pale form glimmered in the pale moonlight as if they were made for each other. “What do you think it’s made of, leaving the core aside?” He didn’t wait for the boy’s attempt at an answer. “Myself. Not a metaphor.”

Green eyes blinked in confusion before Harry truly understood. Green eyes were focused on the wand crafted out of Lord Voldemort’s very bones with something akin to both amazement and revulsion… and something else. Yes… underneath the shock and the disgust… there was impatience. And stress. Like he truly wanted them to leave.

“The moral of the story, my Harry, is that you don’t wish to be in opposition with someone using a wand carved out of his very bones.”

Voldemort was somewhat taken aback by the tears glistened in Harry’s eyes. They filled them with all kinds of nefarious feelings. 

“Tom… I — _no_. Listen to me, I’ll be back soon, just, trust me and wait. Wait,” his horcrux pleaded all of the sudden.

_Back from where? A pointless means to what end?_ He was on guard, magic sizzling in his limbs like a warning, ready. 

“Leave?” he sneered, inching for the boy. ”You’re not leaving, never —”

“Just trust me, _just_ _wait_. I’d explain better if we had time. Which, of course, we don’t.” 

It was too quiet for an attack, too quiet to be something wrong outside this land. His magic deemed it impossible. They were safe. No question about that.

Amusingly enough, Harry’s pitiful attempt at a smile was what taught him to once again to believe in impossible things. 

“Why are you smiling, Harry?” Voldemort asked.

“Because I knew you’d touch me.”

“There are three feet between us.”

His horcrux did not feel like an enemy. 

“Yeah. Now.”

Then the insides of Voldemort’s hand began to melt and nothing else besides that pain made any sense. _Anything to make it stop_. An eternity and a few heartbeats later he was on his knees, his hand intact and well, and Harry nowhere in sight, out of reach of Lord Voldemort’s magic.

_Calm, he needed to keep his calm._

That noble plan lasted for little over a few breaths. 

*** * ***

Harry’s knees landed in mud, cheeks moist and mouth dry. _He couldn't stop sobbing_. _Tom’s eyes had been so sad, so betrayed, so unfair, he shouldn’t have, Harry shouldn’t have_ — _it should have been easy and it was anything but._ Pitiful quivering hands soaked into the moist soil, attempting to push himself into a sitting position but _Harry just couldn’t stop sobbing._

Was this how dying felt like?

The unnatural silence of the Ukrainean forest didn’t bother with an answer, however condemnable. A few pitiful cries later, it registered. It was too quiet. Had he miscalculated the place? Where was everyone? Even Snape? Had the man not managed to leave the meeting just yet?

Vaguely pulling himself together, Harry at last managed to stand on his unsteady legs, blindly gazing around until he glimpsed the few dim lights in the distance. Yes, after all, he had miscalculated, but only slightly so. Now, if he wished for it really, _really_ hard, he could even discern voices and laughs, quite loud laughs — they haven’t heard him arrive, not yet… which meant it wasn’t too late to turn back to Tom, properly explain and —hope against past behavior that Lord Voldemort was merciful to traitors. Harry’s breathing turned painful. Once again he was crying for the killer of his parents and yet Harry couldn’t bring himself to regret anything. He could only try and smother his crying. _There would be no warm arms welcoming him back just yet,_ he knew. _Perhaps never again._ Harry had believed himself prepared for this and he had never been so wrong. 

Sniffing, he dragged himself towards the clearing basked in light, wondering how badly Lord Voldemort hated him now. Shuddering at the possible answer, Harry followed the only visible path to the Order, struggling to breathe properly. A few agonizing steps after, Harry turns on his heels, on his way to retrace the path, thinking _to hell with it._ _Tom would listen, he had to, it would be fine, they’ll manage to_ — but then something changed in the very air, Harry was unable to pinpoint exactly what. He just considered the tension into his very bones as his steps faltered and he looked over his shoulder at where the Order waited for him, so hopeful, so unknowingly ready to be disappointed that Harry preferred to return at what had started as a trap but had become home. 

It was cruel and yet, in spite of it all, the Harry that had met Lord Voldemort in the practice room of the dancing studio was not the same Harry who now stood in the cold Ukrainean night. The past Harry wouldn’t have made the same choice.

The tears on his cheeks dried by the time Harry pushes himself to investigate before taking his leave. _Just at the edge of the clearing,_ he told himself, _see what’s wrong then leave, go to Tom_. And so he went, quietly, wary not to make loud noises… until he nearly tripped, managing to stop his fall only by the grace years of ballet had shaped his movements into. He leaned down to push the log or the stone away from his path… only to find it was neither a log or stone. The shape was not right. In near darkness, Harry needed both hands and quite a bit of strength for his fingers to fix around the slippery object and pull it closer to his face for inspection. His stomach lurched at the sight of the severed and burned palm between his very own. A horror-struck screech stopped in Harry's throat, not due to his strength of character, but for gazing up and glimpsing the owner of the bloodied hand. 

In the feeble moonlight, a mangled body hung off the ground, spinning as a ballet dancer would. It swayed gently into the light night breeze as Harry finally made sense of it all.

The people laughing loudly were covering the screams.

He ran back into the night, seeking that place past the wards from where he could go to Tom. _Safety, Tom_ _meant_ _safe, Tom was better than the laughter and the screams in the light._ Breath heaving, he was unimaginably close to his target when four dark shapes fell and blocked his path, forcing Harry in the wrong direction. He ran and ran, the wards still closing around his body, unable to leave until he crumbled to the ground in his haze to change his direction yet again. 

Harry could feel his knees bleeding inside his trousers at the same time he realized he wasn’t alone anymore… if he had been so at any moment since Appearing here. The shape before his eyes uncoiled from his crouch, a brute of a man with pale everything, limbs, face, hair, eyes. Entirely human and entirely terrifying. 

As fast as a snake, one of the man’s hands seized him up, closing around his throat, mockingly stroking down his chin. It wasn’t choking him, but the promise was there, silent but so present.

“Shhh, Harry Potter. Stay still.”

The tall man was not as threatening as Lord Voldemort, his magic not as powerful and consuming, yet Harry’s blood ran cold, as this one appeared to be starving for violence. He didn’t seem to be treasuring Harry’s life.

And he was talking, Harry registered, talking in a harsh tone difficult to put together at first. A different language, he considered, yet after forcing his mind into focus it proved it was English, a broken English soaked in what might have been German or another Nordic language. 

“— to your Lord, the true Lord. Until then a new token, a new head, another prophecy...”

Merry laughter filled his surroundings.

_His leg all twisted and bloody, crying and screaming in the mud and in the mud there was a head, a human head with words cut in his forehead._ Tom’s memory.

Praying to the very universe that the poison on his fingertips had survived the mud and the bloodied palm, Harry closed his fingers around the man’s wrist. Three heartbeats of panic later the man screeched and the laughter ceased… all for only a few moments. But it was enough. Harry sprinted past the line of trees, finally free of the wards pressing against his ribs.

_To Tom. To Tom. To Tom. To Tom, please._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always more than well-received:)


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